


This Salvation I Desire (is Getting Me Down)

by FourCatProductions



Series: Fool's Gold [2]
Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Anal Sex, Breathplay, Extremely Dubious Consent, M/M, Not Canon Compliant, One instance of face-slapping, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Rough Sex, Verbal Humiliation, Voyeurism, d/s dynamics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-18
Updated: 2017-03-18
Packaged: 2018-10-07 03:54:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,920
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10351722
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FourCatProductions/pseuds/FourCatProductions
Summary: Takes place during Diplomatic Immunity. Erikur recognizes an unwelcome guest at one of Elenwen's parties, and realizes far too late that he probably should have kept his mouth shut.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Itylien](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Itylien/gifts).



> So I finally got around to writing the second part of this. As is typical with this series of works, please note the strong dub-con warning in the tags.
> 
> A big thank you to Itylien, who encouraged me a while back to continue this. Title is from It's a Fire by Portishead.

Erikur hates parties.

There are things he likes _about_ parties. He likes the opulence of both the clothing and the food, and the abundance of drink, though he never partakes enough to embarrass himself (unlike some people he could name). He likes ordering a set of custom robes for each new occasion, and having a new set of servants to wait on him hand and foot for the night, and the occasional thrill of coercing one of those same servants to take him to bed. But the rest - the nauseating small talk, the same dull faces and dull voices assaulting his senses, guzzling firewine so he doesn't spit in Falk's gormless face and waking up with a headache the next morning - he's come to despise.

He stands in front of his mirror and straightens his robes. His reflection mimics him, looking bored. The robes are dark blue velvet with a white fur trim, brand new and embroidered by hand. He's more excited about them than the event he'd ordered them for. 

When he was younger, he'd loved the lavish affairs his parents had thrown, always looking to curry favor with some prospective business partner or member of the Solitude court. They'd trotted him out at every single one to show off the son who would be inheriting their fortune once he came of age. Their garden parties were famed throughout the hold as the event of the season, and as he got older, Erikur had been allowed to help in small ways, like having the servants send out invitations and reviewing the menu. He'd loved every second of it, and he still remembers those nights as if they'd happened yesterday. 

If he closes his eyes, he can conjure the memory of warm, summer air heavy with the scent of lavender blooms, conversation drifting past him in snatches while he snuck sips of mead until everything went blurry around the edges and honey lingered too sweet on his tongue. Sweeter still was the praise heaped onto him by his parents' guests as he proved himself so clever, so knowledgeable for a boy loitering on the edge of manhood. "He's got a head for business," more than one guest had commented when they thought he couldn't overhear to his father, and he'd glowed with pride, hiding behind waist-high nightshade bushes, drunk on liquor and the bounty of springtime. It was clearly what he was meant to do. He secretly thinks, even now, that he must have been blessed by Zenithar himself.

Gisli, on the other hand, had loathed the whole thing and never came to them unless their parents made her, which was rarely. She spent most of those nights sulking in her room, nose in a book. Most of Erikur's childhood memories involving his sister feature her pouting in some corner or another. Not much had changed as they'd gotten older.

Erikur raises his hand to rub his thumb over the amulet of Zenithar he always wears, a long-time habit. Gisli's perpetually sour expression is enough to kill even the liveliest of celebrations. These days, her free time is spent with those two wretched elves, both of whom are as miserable as she is. He can't say he minds - it's a filthy habit, but it keeps her out of his hair until she's needed. Sometimes her lack of gratitude wears on him; he's done nothing but provide for her, as per their parents' last wishes, and his station provides for them both. He puts up with it, though. Without him, she would have nothing.

One summer, when he was fifteen and she was ten, he'd gone to her room an hour before the party to see if she was ready, and found her still in her shift and dressing gown, reading.

"Why aren't you dressed?"

Her lower lip had jutted out stubbornly. "I'm not going."

He'd shrugged. Their parents rarely noticed or required her presence unless it was an event that required them to trot out the entire family, so there was no point in insisting. "Suit yourself. How do I look?" Her attention remained on the book, and he'd prodded her shoulder. "Gisli. How do I look?"

They were having some very important guests, his mother had told him. Some of the palace nobles and a representative of the East Empire company's newest branch were going to be in attendance, and he was fifteen, near a man now. It was imperative for him to play the part of one.

She'd sighed and looked at him over the top of her book. "You look good." Then she'd sniffed at him cautiously and wrinkled her face up, full of freckled disdain. "Ugh, you smell like Father."

 

"That's the point." He'd snuck into their parents' bedroom earlier and helped himself to some of the cologne that his father kept in the nightstand next to the bed for special occasions. It smelled of spice and musk and made him feel very grown-up. "I have to impress the guests."

"I hate their dumb parties," she'd said without warning.

He'd been surprised to see her lip start quivering. "Why?"

"They don't even care if I'm there. They just care about what everyone else thinks. It's so boring."

_Ah,_ Erikur had thought, and patted her arm in what he'd thought was a brotherly fashion. She was only a little girl, after all. The sophistication was lost on her. "You'll get it when you're older."

She'd jerked her arm away and glared at him. "You mean like you?"

"Yes," he'd said patiently, "like me." He supposed it was natural for her to feel jealous, but it wasn't as if he could help it. The light just shone more brightly on him than others.

Gisli's scowl had deepened. "They show you off like you're some kind of trained dog! How can you stand it?"

It had stung, mostly because it had been so unexpected. His sister never spoke to him in such a fashion. He'd very nearly slapped her, but thought better of it at the last second.

"Don't be such a child." She'd looked back down at her book, silent, and he'd shaken his head. "Envy makes pretty girls ugly, you know."

And then one of the servants had come to fetch him, and he'd promptly forgotten about their conversation in his excitement. Gisli had stopped coming to parties altogether after that, unless they had to attend one at the Blue Palace as a family, and she never quite looks him in the eye, even all these years later. He's not sure why. He doesn't think about it much.

As he'd gotten older, the novelty had faded, and he'd grown disillusioned with the whole process; there's less praise, and more tedium. But he keep a smile on his face and endures, as long as it means getting what he wants. A part of him wishes he could recapture the uncomplicated happiness of those days, but Erikur is not a man who wastes time on wishing. He steps out into the chill evening air and heads for the stables, where his carriage is waiting to take him to the Embassy. 

Autumn is breathing its last, waiting to be crushed beneath winter's oppressive weight, and he silently thanks the gods for having the forethought to purchase a cloak with warming enchantments threaded through it back in the summer, before it was in high demand. Those scheming elves at Radiant Raiment keep driving up the price, but they're also the only ones capable of producing the quality someone of his stature needs. The carriage driver salutes him when he climbs aboard, and they're off with a flick of his whip, breath wreathing their heads in thick white clouds. The sunset fades into a silvery blue twilight, their shadows stretched long and sinister behind them. 

Erikur had wrangled an invitation to Elenwen's party, as he does with every event at the embassy that he gets wind of. The Thalmor are good for business, and business is never bad. Still, it's all the same. Either there's some stiff, gray affair at court where he has has to make all the requisite noises about loyalty and patronage, or it's a boot-licking political function like this one, where the drinks are good but everyone tries too hard. His parents had turned flattery into an art form, negotiation into an intricate dance, and he'd learned from them; in comparison, everyone else is clumsy, almost garish in their attempts to gather favor. He spots Orthus Endario across the room as soon as he steps through the door, simpering nervously as he chats up a bored Vittoria Vici, and sighs. Laying it on that thick gives away the game before it's even begun, and Erikur has no patience for amateurs.

He shoves his cloak into the arms of the attendant standing next to the door and goes to greet Elenwen. He's long suspected she doesn't care for him, or any human, and the feeling is mutual, but he smiles and kisses one of her cold golden hands anyway. She doesn't throw _good_ parties by any stretch of the imagination, but she always serves hideously expensive liquor served by fetching little Bosmer in barely-there clothing, and that alone is usually worth suffering through a couple hours of lies and innuendo.

It's not worth it. Everyone stands in awkward clumps of two and three, a few stragglers perched on the benches against the wall, and there's superficial chatter amongst the groups while everyone waits for the dancing to start and tries to avoid catching Elenwen's eye. Servers weave in and out of the crowd expertly, carrying polished silver platters loaded with food and delicate flutes of dark red wine. Erikur snatches one from a passing tray. He hasn't seen Elenwen's pretty servant girl yet, which is a damn shame - there aren't nearly enough Bosmer in Skyrim for his liking, and she's one of the finest he's ever laid eyes on.

He leans against a pillar on the back wall, richly woven tapestries strung up on either side, sipping from his glass and surveying the other guests with mild disappointment. The only person he really sees of note, besides the foppish Jarl from Falkreath, is Maven Black-Briar, both of whom he intends to speak with once they've all had a few drinks and everyone has loosened up. The boy is a an arrogant fool and Maven charmless, but sacrifices have to be made.

A bard plays the lute softly nearby, melodic strains hovering in the background. Erikur grinds his teeth. He hates the lute, doubly so ever since that little Breton bitch at the Winking Skeever turned up her nose at him. He spots Razelan at one point, which should have been promising, but judging from the merchant's hangdog expression and empty hands, he'd been forbidden from drinking. Vittoria clearly still remembers the Harvest's End disaster. Erikur knocks back two Colovian brandies in ten minutes and wonders how early is too early to leave.

Two more brandies, and the room becomes beautiful. Everyone's finery is the color of jewels and candles flicker merrily in their sconces, shadow pooling on the floor and lapping at the walls. Erikur vaguely recognizes the tune playing, accompanied now by hand drums, and hums along as he summons a server to take away his empty glasses. He's steeling himself to go chat up Maven when he spots Elenwen looming over someone in the entryway like a carrion bird.

The latecomer is a young woman with a halo of black curls, dressed in fine, pale green silks that stand out against her deep brown skin. Gold gleams at her wrists and throat. She's striking, but that's not why he's staring. He's certain he's seen her before, but he can't place her for the life of him. She doesn't appear intimidated by Elenwen in the slightest, though, which is the most intriguing thing that's happened since he arrived. Her expression remains pleasantly neutral the entire time they're talking, whereas the ambassador appears disconcerted. Erikur is too far away to make out their conversation, but he finds himself gratified by the exchange, a bit of payback for the way the elves look down their noses at the rest of them. At _him._  

Whatever the rest of Elenwen's questions, they're forstalled by one of her guards hurrying over and leaning in to murmur something in her ear. Even at a distance, Erikur can see her expression harden, but only for a moment. She excuses herself and swans off, guard on her heels. The stranger glances around, then smirks and makes a subtle, but unmistakably rude gesture at the Altmer's retreating back.

Erikur realizes how he knows her, and panic sets in.

She flits through the crowd right towards him, and as she moves past the long buffet tables that have been set up, he hurries to intercept her, blocking her path to the door behind the bar. The elf polishing glasses at the end of it gives them a curious look. As soon as she spots him, her smile falls away, but she plasters it back on almost immediately.

"Thane Erikur. What a pleasant surprise." Her voice is lilting and lightly accented, and her full lips are painted red. Up close, he can see that she has tiny gold rings in her earlobes, and a matching hoop glitters in her nostril. "Are you enjoying the party?"

"I don't know what you think you're playing at," he says through his teeth, forcing his mouth into a smile, "but you're not welcome here."

"Oh no?" She withdraws a gilt piece of parchment from somewhere amidst the silks enshrouding her and waves it at him. Her fingernails are the color of fresh blood. "This says I am. Fancy that."

"Fancy that indeed." The brandy has made him slow, and with a flick of her wrist, it's gone, stowed away again before he can snatch it from her. He scowls. "You seem to be turning up in all sorts of unexpected places lately."

"Do you think I'm stalking you?" She seems amused by the idea, which only irritates him more. 

"I _know_ you're not fool enough to be here on Guild business," he says, voice low, moving closer to her. "The Embassy is off-limits."

She tilts her face up and smiles coquettishly, but her eyes remain cold. From a distance, it looks like she's flirting. "I'm not here on Guild business," she whispers, barely audible over the music.

"Then you won't mind telling me what you're doing here."

"I do, actually."

She tries to slip past him, but he catches her upper arm, fingers digging into her flesh, and raises his voice. "Tell me, or I'll let Madame Ambassador know she has a rat problem."

A few more gazes shift their way. The woman's smile vanishes, and she wrenches free with unexpected strength, only to take his elbow and draw him off to a secluded alcove nearby, hazel eyes gone murderous. 

"Keep it down," she hisses. "I told you, this is unrelated to the guild. And I'm on a tight schedule, so I'll thank you not to interfere."

"Tell me," Erikur demands again. He only likes secrets when he's the one keeping them. The brandy is making him bolder, but it also makes his tongue feel too big for his mouth, and he licks dry, chapped lips.

The woman pinches the bridge of her nose and closes her eyes, exhaling slowly. "There's a room at the end of that corridor over there, on the left side," she says. "No one ever uses it. I'll meet you there in two minutes."

"Do you really think I'm that much of a fool?" He knows this game. "You lead the way. I'll follow you."

"I can't. Maven's just seen us talking, and I have to go say hello or else she'll take it as a slight." There's a hint of pleading in her words now. "Two minutes, I swear. Then I'll explain."

He relents. "Fine. Two minutes, or else Elenwen and I are going to have a little chat about her guest list."

"You've made your point. _Go._ "

She releases his elbow, and he makes a show of fixing his doublet before sauntering off. He's still convinced that she's lying to him - and if that turns out to be the case, there will be hell to pay, even if he has to march down to Riften and shake an apology out of the new Guildmaster personally - but he reminds himself to be patient. He'll wring the truth from her soon enough. He passes by Maven on his way out with a cordial nod, and she returns it, raising her goblet with a strange, sly smile.

He realizes belatedly that he still doesn't know the woman's name. Either way, she's right about the room. It's so small he'd almost missed it coming down the hallway and had to backtrack, and everything is coated in a fine layer of dust. He waits, examining the grimy candlesticks on the mantle and mentally rehearsing what he might say to Elenwen without implicating himself. He gets tired of waiting quickly.

He's pacing back and forth, tracking impatient paths through the pale dust on the floorboards, when the door behind him creaks. He turns around. "It took you long enough. I was getting ready to - "

The cloaked figure standing there is not his mystery woman. His skin prickles with fear, and he gropes frantically for the dagger at his waist. There's nothing there, and his blood runs cold as he remembers that he doesn't _have_ his dagger. Elenwen didn't allow weapons at her little gatherings. Too _uncivilized._ He makes a grab for the nearest candlestick instead.

"Shhh." Erikur has the impression of soft green light, and then an impossible calm washes over him, his fear receding in its wake. His hand falls limply to his side. What had he been worried about? He tries to remember and can't. It doesn't seem to matter now.

"That's better," the stranger says, pleased. Erikur nods, though he's not sure why. "Here." He's handed a flask of something purple and sweetly noxious. "Drink this. All of it." He drains it obediently. It's no Colovian brandy, but he's had worse, although the slimy texture makes his tongue stick to the roof of his mouth. He struggles to swallow all of it, and the stranger chuckles. "Shame you have to leave early. It's shaping up to be quite a party."

_What is he talking about,_ Erikur wonders. The Thalmor host boring parties, and he should know, he's been to damn near every one of them. And then darkness rushes up to greet him as his legs give out, and he doesn't know anything at all.

 ---

Three long years of bad luck, and the Thieves Guild is rising.

Erikur has never had a problem with thieves, provided they leave his things where they found them. In a way, he admires them. That admiration doesn't extend to just any common cutpurse, mind you, but the Guild knows how to get what it wants, and more importantly, they're usually willing to help you get what you want too - for a price. He could respect that kind of unflinching avarice, and he'd spent the better part of a decade cultivating a casual relationship with them before their decline. He'd watched their influence unravel as they were forced further underground with disappointment. Whether their luck had turned due to sabotage or simple incompetence, he couldn't say, but once he'd caught wind of their slow climb back to the top, his disagreement with Captain Volf had seemed the perfect opportunity to invite an exchange of favors. 

Volf's disgrace had been flawlessly planned and executed. It's what happened afterward that Erikur doesn't think about. The less he lets himself think about it, the easier it is to pretend it didn't happen.

The following days melted into weeks, and it finally began to feel as though the invisible noose around his neck had loosened. Nothing had happened. He could have laughed aloud at his own foolishness. Of course nothing had happened! He was a thane, and the most influential businessman in Skyrim. They wouldn't dare to make an enemy of him.

He'd been taking a walk one evening, when summer was still clinging to its last days, the cobblestone streets slick beneath his boots from an unexpected rain shower earlier in the day. Upon his return, he'd seen a figure crouching on his stoop. His hand had crept to his sword on instinct, and he'd been less than five paces away when the figure had said, "If I were trying to rob you, I'd have come and gone already," without turning around.

He'd fumbled and nearly slipped, caught off-guard, but managed to steady himself at the last second. "Then who, praytell, are you, and what are you doing by my door?"

She'd turned around at that and stood up, flashing a smile meant to disarm. "Shadowmarking you." One slender finger taps the door frame, directing his attention to the crude charcoal symbol etched low on the wood, half-hidden by the barrels he keeps out front. He'd eyed it suspiciously, hand still curled around the pommel of his sword. "It's to let the others know that you're officially under our protection."

"I know what it is," he'd snapped. "Are you telling me I didn't have one before?"

She'd shrugged. "The Guildmaster told me to stop by and make sure all four corners of your house were marked. I suppose he wants you to feel secure as our newest official patron."

Erikur had glanced around. There was no one to see them talking, so he'd allowed himself to relax and feel some small measure of satisfaction. It was about time he started receiving some tangible gratitude. "Well, good. Extend my regards to Mercer when you return."

The look she'd given him then was long and searching. "You haven't heard?"

"Heard what?"

"Mercer Frey is no longer part of our organization." Something had flashed in her eyes then, and the hair on his arms had prickled in response, but then she'd smiled again and the moment passed. "Our new Guildmaster is taking a more active role in guild business."

"I see," Erikur had said. He'd never met Mercer, but he liked the cut of this new fellow's jib already. The woman had rested her hand on the barrel nearest to them, and he'd taken the pause to study her. She was tall, with thick black curls wreathing her head like a crown, dark, liquid eyes and skin the color of the maple trees that grew to the south. A faint accent spoke of warmer climes. Perhaps she was new. He didn't know. It was rare he interacted with anyone besides Delvin.

Well, Delvin and -

"I should be going," she'd said, mercifully disrupting his thoughts. "Check here at the end of each season, for your cut. It'll be waiting."

"Five percent of all profits garnered in Haafigar," he reminds her, and she arches one thick brow at him. It's a very good singular brow raise. He secretly envies it.

"I'm not in charge of how the money is allotted. I just bring it in. But not to worry, Thane Erikur. The Guild rewards loyalty most generously."

Erikur had decided to limit his future correspondences to Delvin, who alone seemed to understand how to refrain from condescension. But two weeks later, a fat coinpurse appeared in the barrel as promised, hidden in a sackful of ripe apples. He'd been pleased to see that the new Guildmaster knew which side his bread was buttered on, and even more pleased as the coin continued to roll in over the next few months, with no end in sight.

In retrospect, though, he should have seen it coming. It had all been far too easy.

 ---

This isn't his room.

Erikur's head is pounding, and his mouth is drier than Hammerfell. He'd tried opening his eyes a moment earlier, but the room had begun spinning and bile had risen in his throat. He'd quickly squeezed shut them again, but that one glimpse had left him with a horrible certainty in the pit of his stomach - this isn't his room.

He lays very still on his back now, feeling like his head might split in two, and little details begin to drift to the forefront of his consciousness. The mattress beneath him is nowhere near soft enough, and what little he can feel of the quilt against his neck is thin and scratchy, the pillow flat and overly-firm. Little things, but they paint a picture that's nothing like the luxurious elegance he takes care to surround himself with at home. There's a strange pressure against his wrists and ankles, too, more annoying than painful, and the room is drafty, cool air wafting across his face. He can hear music faintly in the distance, but nothing else.

Once the urge to retch passes, he tries raising his head and is met with limited success. His arms are drawn up over his head for some reason, he realizes. He tries moving those too, and can't, the pressure around his wrists increasing. He tilts his head back with some difficulty and squints.

He's cuffed to the headboard.

The fear lurking in his chest threatens to become panic, and he yanks at them uselessly, trying to pull free. They're padded, probably leather, but the chain connecting them is solid and rattles loudly against the wood, making his head throb all over again. He stops, sucking in deep breaths.

"Don't hurt yourself," someone says, amused. Erikur whips his head towards the sound on instinct. He immediately regrets it as the room lurches sideways. "None of that. Don't want you getting sick all over yourself." There's movement off to the side, and then a blurry figure crouches next to the bed. The voice sounds vaguely familiar, but he can't place it. Warm fingers touch his forehead. "Try not to move too much. Here."

He's given a potion, followed by mouthfuls of cool water, and he swallows both greedily as his headache and nausea begin to ebb. All too soon, it's taken away, and he cautiously opens his eyes once more. "You - " His voice is scratchy still, and weak. It fades as the elf smirks at him.

"Feeling better?" He's a Bosmer, small and lithe, with long auburn hair that falls well past his shoulders and sharp, red-stained teeth.

Erikur feels nauseous again, but now for an entirely different reason. "You _drugged_ and _abducted_ me!" He pulls at the cuffs again. "I demand to know the meaning of this!" He remembers snatches of gossip, rumors, about villagers disappearing into thin air late at night, never to return, and a part of him is afraid he'd been too quick to dismiss the people of Haafigar as paranoid fools.

"Calm spell and a sleeping draught," the elf corrects him, not sounding sorry in the least. "And it was unavoidable. You almost compromised a very delicate mission."

Anger flares white-hot in his veins. "That lying wench," he whispers.

The elf chuckles. "Asha was just following orders. And before you ask, I'm not going to tell you why we were there. So don't bother."

"Asha." He spits the unfamiliar name out like a curse. "Who is she?"

"One of our best infiltrators." The elf perches on the bed next to Erikur. "And you very nearly blew her cover," he admonishes playfully, as though this is a perfectly normal conversation. A conversation between _equals_. "Good thing I was there to intervene, or things would have gotten much, much messier."

Erikur tries jabbing a knee at him, but the straps around his ankles hold him firmly in place. He snarls and slams the chains against the headboard again. "Let me go at once!" The elf just stares at him blankly, so he takes a deep breath to refocus himself and lowers his voice, trying to sound calmer and more intimidating. It's not too late to regain control of the situation. "You don't want me to write to Delvin about this little incident. Or your new Guildmaster, for that matter. I'd hate to have to withdraw my support just when your organization was gaining a foothold in Solitude."

"You really want _Delvin_ knowing about this?" The elf raises an eyebrow, incredulous. "Not that I think he'd embarrass you further, of course, but old Delvin's tongue tends to loosen after a few drinks, and... well. There are ears everywhere. You know how it is."

Erikur switches tactics. "You said you were just following orders. Surely not your Guild's."

"What does it matter? You're stuck here either way until we get the all-clear."

Rage swells in his chest like a black wave, potent enough to choke on. How dare they do this to him. He has been _nothing_ but generous, and forgiving of his treatment at their hands, and in return they leash him like some sort of cur and keep him ignorant of the state of their affairs. It isn't right - isn't _acceptable_ for them to treat him this way. 

"Whose orders?" The elf opens his mouth, but Erikur rams his cuffs against the headboard once more and bellows, " _Whose orders were you following?_ "

"My orders, of course," a second voice says, and it is a voice both more familiar and infinitely more terrifying than the first. Dharmash materializes at the foot of the bed, eyes gleaming in the darkness. "Good to see you again, Erikur."

Erikur screams.

"You remember Dharmash, I'm sure," the elf says cheerfully. "I'm Syndmir."

Erikur screams louder.

He twists wildly against his bonds, bedsheets rumpling beneath him as he calls for the guards, for Melaran, Gisli, _someone_ to notice his plight and exact retribution on his tormentors. Both thieves remain silent while they watch him, bemused, until he can yell no more and goes into a coughing fit, throat raw. "Someone will - " He has to stop there, swallow with a painful grimace - "will come for me. Just you wait."

Dharmash and Syndmir exchange glances.

"He thinks us amateurs," Dharmash says, ears flattening. "Dharmash is hurt by this lack of confidence."

"Muffle spell," Syndmir clarifies with a smile. "No one knows you're here."

"Where is 'here'?" Erikur demands, grasping at the fragile thread of hope being offered. If he knows, he might be able to formulate a plan.

Syndmir opens his mouth, but Dharmash shoots him a look, and he shuts it. "I didn't think it would matter," he mumbles apologetically. "It's not like we're kidnapping him. Just... keeping him out of the way."

"Thane Erikur is far too used to having his own way." Dharmash's muzzle wrinkles when he smiles, the tips of his fangs showing, and Erikur realizes he's sweating, his robes damp at his armpits and sticking to his back. "But I will explain. Asha is doing me a favor. You were interfering. That is why this one and Syndmir removed you from the situation."

"So Mallory's pet sends a little slip of a girl to handle his business," Erikur says, pleased with himself for the jab. "Afraid Elenwen is in the market for a new coat?"

"It was a practical concern," Syndmir cuts in, frowning. "They would never invite a Khajiit to their precious embassy."

The tip of Dharmash's tail lashes in what is undoubtedly annoyance. "You speak too freely, elf."

"Well, it's not as if he doesn't _know_." Syndmir looks over at Erikur. "You've been to lots of these parties, right? Have you ever seen a Khajiit there? Or for that matter, a Bosmer who wasn't a servant?" Erikur stares at him, and he nods. "I thought so."

Dharmash scoffs and folds his arms across his chest. "This one thinks that Thane Erikur is too quick to judge for a man who spills blood with the hands of others."

Erikur wants to spit at him, but his mouth is too dry. "I will make sure your Guildmaster hears about this, mark my words."

"Dharmash expects no less." Those eerie silver eyes bore into him. His wrists are damp beneath the cuffs. Sweat trickles down his temples, his heart hammering in his throat. "But what shall we do with you until then?"

"I know what you _want_ to do with him," Syndmir says.

A jolt of fear lances down Erikur's spine. Worse than that, though, is the familiar stirring low in his belly. This is not happening, he thinks. This can't happen. He curls his lip, wills his voice to remain steady. "Lay one hand on me, and I'll have it cut off."

"Oh, don't be so dramatic." Syndmir tucks a lock of hair behind one long, tapered ear. "You have to admit, it'd be more fun than just laying there."

"I admit no such thing, you filthy - "

"Actually," Dharmash interjects. He slinks around to the opposite side of the bed and settles into the chair there with a slouch, looking for all the world like a Jarl on his throne. "I think you should fuck him."

"Ooh," Syndmir says, eyes lighting up, and grins, running his tongue across his teeth. It's small and pink and there's that unwanted heat again, curling between Erikur's thighs. "I can think of worse ways to kill time."

Through inhuman effort and sheer strength of will, Erikur had stopped thinking about the last time. Stopped thinking about it, stopped dreaming about it, stopped cowering whenever the house creaked or the wind rattled the windowpanes. He'd finally stopped reliving the memory of those loathsome hands on him, of leather and buckles digging into his bare flesh, leaving imprints that refused to fade for hours, of hot breath against his neck while the thief moved deep inside him -

His wretched, traitorous cock swells as the memories come flooding back, vivid as they've ever been. He grits his teeth and tries to turn his body away.

"Say, Erikur." An unexpected weight settles on his hips, and Syndmir gasps and looks down at him, eyes wide. "We haven't even started yet!"

Erikur's face goes hot, and he can't move his hips to try to buck Syndmir off - his bonds seem to have tightened, if anything, and Syndmir is surprisingly solid.

"You know... a little pine thrush told me that you have a bit of a weakness for my kin." He leans in, squeezing Erikur's hips with his thighs. "That you find us irresistible, even. Is that true?" Up close, he smells earthy, hair spilling over his shoulder to tickle Erikur's throat, and he has a delicate, pretty mouth and golden eyes. Erikur desperately wants to find him repulsive.

"None of your secrets are as well-kept as you think," Dharmash says softly.

"Your threats are meaningless," Erikur snaps, even as his stomach tightens with anxiety. The cat seems to read him as easily as a shipping ledger. Like Erikur is nothing more than a collection of facts and figures, neatly jotted down for his perusal. "Release me this instant!"

"Sorry, can't," Syndmir says, and kisses him. He tries to pull away out of reflex, but Syndmir slides his hands into Erikur's hair and bites his lower lip with sharp teeth before sucking on it gently. Erikur's body responds most inappropriately, and Syndmir laughs into his mouth, tugging at his hair. His arse is obnoxiously firm against Erikur's cock. "See? Not so bad. This could be fun."

His mouth slides across Erikur's jaw and down to his throat, and Erikur's hips rock of their own accord. His eyes prickle, wet with humiliated anger as Syndmir pets him and whispers, "That's a good lad," against his skin, but the head of his cock is wet now too and he's never come as close to hating himself as he does in this moment.

"Do you remember what I told you last time, Erikur?" Dharmash's voice is quiet, but he can still hear it, even over the rushing in his ears. "If you submit..."

_"If you submit, Dharmash will make sure that this is enjoyed by all." The tips of those sharp, white fangs trace an impossibly delicate line along his pulse point. "What say you, Thane?"_

He could struggle. He knows they won't kill him. The Guild is not the Dark Brotherhood, and even if Dharmash is acting on his own, killing someone as valuable as himself would attract too much attention. Teeth press against his bare throat and he chokes back a moan, his anger dampened momentarily by the ache in his balls. There doesn't seem to be a point to his continued struggle, now that he really thinks about it - his bonds are too tight, and it isn't as if he's getting anywhere. He should be preserving precious energy for later.

Syndmir nips at his ear, and he twitches despite himself, strong hands kneading his chest. "Oh, that's lovely," Syndmir sighs, and grinds his hips down, his cock nudging against Erikur's. "Come on, it's not like you're going anywhere for a while."

Erikur exhales, arousal starting to edge out his more complicated emotions in the wake of his own soothing thoughts. He doesn't have to give them the satisfaction of his enjoyment, but this way, maybe he can convince them to lower their guard. If they think they have the upper hand, maybe they'll slip up somewhere and he can free himself.

Maybe, maybe, maybe... half-formed thoughts flit through his mind, frantic justifications as Syndmir undoes his breeches and takes him in hand with a couple of quick, teasing strokes. He slides down Erikur's body to curl up between his spread thighs, freeing him from the confines of his smalls. Dharmash's tail swishes lazily against the floorboards.

Syndmir's mouth is hot where he sucks a bruise on Erikur's hipbone, and his tongue is hotter still when he plants an open-mouthed kiss on the underside of Erikur's cock. Erikur digs his teeth into his lower lip and remains silent, but the beads of precome shining on the head like little jewels give him away. Syndmir laps them up, pleased.

"I like Skyrim," he says. "All these big Nords, always ready for a quick fuck. Shame we have to keep you tied up, or I'd have you take me against the wall."

"We could make a deal," Erikur tries.

"Stop wheedling and we will not leave you like this for someone to find," Dharmash says. "There is your deal."

"There must be something you want," Erikur insists. Even those who claim they can't be bought have a price. He just hasn't found the cat's yet, that's all.

"What makes you think we're after anything specific?" Syndmir asks. "Maybe we're just bored." He winks.

Erikur is somewhat offended, despite himself. "I am not just some - some _plaything_ for you to abuse!"

"I'd hardly call this abuse." He mouths wetly at Erikur's cock with plush lips, and Erikur's hips thrust into him of their own accord. He opens his mouth, ready to retort, and quick as lightning, Syndmir sits up and shoves a gag between his teeth. He nearly chokes on the fabric, spluttering and trying to spit it out. Syndmir slaps him. He's strong for someone so wiry, and Erikur's vision goes blurry for a split second, cheek stinging. He isn't any softer for it.

"Behave," Syndmir warns, and pulls out another long strip of cloth. He ties it around Erikur's mouth with a couple of deft movements, ignoring his garbled outrage. "Much better."

"His whining _is_ tiresome," Dharmash agrees. 

"Cock's pretty nice though. Pass me the oil, would you?"

Syndmir apparently isn't a fan of foreplay. He shucks off the rest of his clothing in record time and dumps a generous amount of oil into his hand, dripping all over his fingers and down his wrist. Some of it splashes onto Erikur's bare thighs. It smells like snowberries. And then Syndmir turns around and reaches back and Erikur gets a generous eyeful of him sliding one long finger into himself. He shuts his eyes hastily, but it's no good. He can still hear everything - the obscene slick sounds of the oil, Syndmir's groans as he shifts around in Erikur's lap, and his own shallow breathing. He opens them again, just the tiniest bit, and instantly regrets it.

Syndmir has his face pressed into the bed, back arched while he fingers himself and moans shamelessly. The oil smeared all over his arse makes his bronze skin gleam, and the fine, lean muscles in his back and thighs are bunched, standing out in stark relief. Erikur bites down on the gag and makes a strangled, unpleasant sort of sound deep in his throat. Dharmash laughs. Erikur shoots him the most vicious glare he can muster in his current state. Dharmash stares back, unperturbed.

"Pay attention," Syndmir says. Slick fingers wrap around his shaft, and Erikur's breath is pulled from his lungs like steam escaping a vent. Syndmir climbs up into his lap, knees bracketing his hips, and Erikur can't seem to tear his eyes away, watching him shrug his hair back over his shoulders, strands sticking to his flushed cheeks as he braces his hands against Erikur's stomach. Then, he sinks directly onto Erikur's cock.

There's no warning, and a horribly undignified noise escapes Erikur, his head falling back and thunking against the headboard. It's been months. Syndmir makes a delighted, breathless sort of noise that goes straight to his balls, and rocks experimentally, eyelids fluttering.

"Oh," he purrs, and digs his nails into the tense plane of Erikur's stomach, making him wince. "You, my friend, are most generous when the mood strikes."

"Consider this compensation for a job well done," Dharmash says, and Erikur isn't sure which is worse - the fact that he's apparently being used as a reward, or that part of him is getting off on it.

He groans as Syndmir takes more of him, until every inch of his cock is encased in _tight-hot-slick_. He's always enjoyed being ridden, so he can just lay back and enjoy the view, but this is something new - this is like being a living toy, and he can't even begin to set the pace. Syndmir rides him roughly, thighs and stomach flexing as he bounces, and all the while, Dharmash watches, lounging in his chair. One of his ears flicks occasionally, the earrings clinking. Can't even be bothered to do this yourself, Erikur catches himself thinking, and reminds himself, far too late, that he isn't supposed to care.

Syndmir spits into his hand and wraps it around his own cock, head lolling forward onto his chest. He doesn't say anything, but his breathing changes, his rhythm becoming more erratic, until he abruptly stops and grinds his hips as far down on Erikur as they'll go. He comes all over his own fist and Erikur's stomach with his teeth bared, his muscles rippling around Erikur's cock. Erikur is left to teeter agonizingly on the brink of orgasm, straining against his bonds and whimpering with frustration. Syndmir slumps forward and pats his cheek. 

"Look at him whine like the dog he is." His voice is gravelly, the ends of his words slurred with satisfaction. "What do you think? Should we let him come?"

"If he begs, perhaps." Dharmash leans forward, propping his chin on his knuckles. "Then again, I can see the benefit in leaving him to suffer."

Erikur's body jerks upward of its own accord, a silent plea to the contrary. Syndmir, the little sadist, clenches around him just to hear him moan. He chuckles, threading his fingers through Erikur's sweaty hair. "He got harder when you said we should let him suffer. Maybe you're right."

_no no no NO_

He shakes his head violently, twisting and squirming until Syndmir knees him in the side. "Calm down, will you?"

Calm is a foreign language. His pulse is pounding, his cock is throbbing, and a jumble of thoughts loops through his mind in time with his heartbeat, telling him that he can't let this happen. He can't let them think depriving him is acceptable, is something he _wants,_ gods no - 

"Erikur. Look at me."

Erikur looks. He can't help himself.

Dharmash's eyes glow like molten silver in the dim light filtering through the shutter. He's palming himself through his breeches, unhurried, and shivers trace Erikur's spine like fingertips. "In a moment, my friend will take your gag out. If you are smart, you will beg him to allow you to come. Do you understand?" 

What other choice does he have? He nods.

"Good. Syndmir?"

Syndmir rakes his hair out of his face with the hand that isn't covered in oil and come, and smiles sweetly down at Erikur as he wipes the one that is on Erikur's tunic. "Oh, don't look at me like that." He reaches over and yanks the gag out, leaving it to slap wetly against Erikur's neck. "Would you like me to fuck you until you come?"

"Of course I want to come," Erikur snaps, voice hoarse. "I hope you're both happy with yourselves."

"That," Syndmir says, "is the worst attempt at begging I've ever heard." His hand slides to Erikur's throat and squeezes. Not hard enough to hurt, but enough to constrict his breathing. Enough to make him instinctively struggle to suck in air against the firm pressure around his neck and fail. Syndmir releases him, and he gasps, spots of light dancing at the edges of his vision. "Try again."

The silence that follows is only seconds long, but to Erikur, it seems to drag on for an eternity. The words come out as little more than a whisper. "I want to come. Please."

"Better. Louder."

He tries again. "Please... let me come."

"I said louder." Syndmir takes his throat in hand again - not squeezing, just resting it there, his fingertips pressed gently against Erikur's windpipe. At the same time, he starts a long, slow grind; barely noticeable movements of his hips that have Erikur's breath coming in stuttered gasps. "Nobody can hear you but us, you know. So make it good."

The last vestige of his resistance crumbles like some much sand on the riverbank. He has no recollection of what he said during those minutes, what promises he made or what pleas escaped him. He only remembers chanting  _please please please_ like a prayer, sweat dripping from his temples, until his words begin to run together and he's coiled as tightly as a wire trap. Syndmir places an unexpectedly gentle finger to his lips, silencing him. "That'll do."

This time, he fucks Erikur like he means it, like he intends to drive him straight through the mattress. It's more overwhelming than good, makes Erikur whimper, face all screwed up and hot as he's pushed relentlessly towards the edge. He can feel it starting to pool in his groin and belly, balls tightening, and every inch of him feels raw and overstimulated, Syndmir's hand hot around his throat. It seems to spread, heat licking at his skin, and he panics, jumping when a rough tongue laps at his cheek, soft fur and whiskers tickling his skin.

"Do not fight it." Dharmash's voice is a low rumble in his ear. "Let it happen."

"Don't be scared," Syndmir pants, and his smile is sharp and wicked. "It's going to feel so good, come on, just let it happen..."

He has no proof they used magic on him. He has no idea what sort of spell might have been cast, if it even was a spell. But the pleasure that crashes over him when he comes is almost ugly, paralyzing in its absolution; his mind goes blank as it sucks him under like a riptide. He thinks he sees Aetherius, or maybe one of the planes of Oblivion.

He drifts in and out after that. He's vaguely aware of his body, but it feels foreign, like it belongs to someone else. Someone laughs, sounding far away. A hand strokes his cheek. There are words, but he can't make them out over the sound of his own ragged breathing, his own slamming heartbeat. And then, for the second time that night, there's nothing at all.

 

When he wakes, he's unbound and fully dressed. A brief investigation reveals that his wrists are still tender and angry-red from the cuffs, marks hidden by his sleeves. He runs his fingers over the areas that are starting to bruise and feels sick. He gets up, and opens the shutters to a sweet autumn morning, breeze crisp and the sky pale blue. A bird trills mockingly from a nearby tree as he slams them shut. When he flings open the door to the room, he's greeted by the Winking Skeever's familiar hallway. It's still early enough that nobody's awake downstairs, save Corpulus and Sorex, so there's nobody else to see Erikur come down the stairs, ashen and wild-eyed.

Corpulus is laughing at something Sorex says, but it dies in his throat as soon as he catches sight of Erikur storming towards him. "Thane Erikur!" he stammers, face gone pale. "What can I do for you? Lisette isn't here yet - "

Erikur slams his fist on the counter. It hurts, but he's too angry to care. "Where are they?" His voice is hoarse from crying out earlier, his throat sore.

Corpulus stares at him, clearly at a loss. "Where's who?"

"The cat and the elf. They came here last night, they paid for a room. When did they leave?"

Sorex and Corpulus exchange glances. Sorex picks up a rag and moves away, scrubbing at some invisible smudge on the bar. Corpulus smiles politely, but his eyes remain bewildered. "You paid for your room last night, my Thane."

"That's not possible."

"I can show you the logbook, if you'd like." His tone is soothing. Placating. Erikur wants to smash his face against the freshly-cleaned bar. "With all due respect, I have no reason to lie to you. Khajiit aren't allowed within city walls, and we haven't had any elves here in weeks -"

"Fine! You're useless to me, both of you!" Erikur shoves away from the counter unsteadily, knocking an empty flagon to the ground in the process, and stalks out of the inn. He can feel their eyes burning into his back - worthless, slovenly commoners gawking at him, trying to pull the wool over his eyes. No matter. He'll deal with them as soon as he sorts out the rest of this mess. The door slams satisfyingly behind him. 

 

Gisli's pacing in the sitting room when he lets himself in, and she pounces on him, still in her dressing gown and robes with her hair all tangled around her face and dark circles under her eyes. "Where have you been?!"

"Out," he says irritably, trying to free himself from her grasp. "What's wrong with you?"

" _Me_?" She tightens her grip on his arm. "Why don't _you_ explain why two Thalmor agents came pounding on our door at four in the bloody morning?"

Erikur's blood turns to ice. "What?"

"They were looking for you." Her bloodshot eyes search his face, free hand clutching her robes around her neck. "Is it true?"

"Is _what_ true? What did they want?"

"You really don't know?" He shakes his head, motions for her to spit it out. "There was a break-in at the Embassy during the party last night. Apparently, they got the situation under control, but there were casualties." She pulls her robes tighter. "I thought at first they were going to tell me something had happened to you, but then they said you weren't with the rest of the guests when they evacuated everyone..."

She keeps talking, but Erikur is no longer listening. He stares at her still moving lips, his mind turning in circles. He knows it has something to do with the Guild, but the Guild doesn't kill. What is he missing? Gisli, alarmed by his silence, shakes his arm. "Erikur? Where were you last night?"

He snaps out of it. "I'll handle this. Don't say anything to anyone."

"But - "

"Don't question me!" He shoves her away, and she stumbles a little with the force of it. "And don't breathe a word of this to anyone!"

Her furious reply chases him up the stairs, but he isn't listening. He locks himself in his bedroom and spends the next several minutes checking and double-checking everything he can think of: the latches on the windows, inside the wardrobe, under the bed, anything he can think of to reassure himself that he's finally, completely alone. He's exhausted, but his head is a hurricane and his skin buzzes, chest tight with anxiety. He ends up pacing in circles, clenching and unclenching his fists until he's calmed down enough to think straight. If the Thalmor want to speak with him, then so be it; he believes in the power of a well-timed preemptive strike.

He digs his finest parchment out of his desk - heavy, cream-colored and edged in gold leaf - and sets up his inkwell and quill once he's stopped shaking. If the Guild wants to provoke him, they can deal with the consequences. He sits down and reaches for the quill. He'll have Melaran deliver his letter straight to the embassy, as soon as the ink is dry.

_To Whom It May Concern -_

_I_ _require an audience with Ambassador Elenwen at once. I have information that may be related to the attack on the Embassy last night. Specifically, information on an uninvited guest present during the festivities._

_Her name is Asha._


End file.
